The hollow, damp air of the abandoned warehouse is quiet, save for the distant, metallic groan of settling rafters and the rhythmic, impatient tap-tap-tap of Father’s polished shoes against the cracked concrete floorboards.

He hates this. He absolutely detests the location, he loathes the humiliating circumstances, and most importantly... he utterly despises the fact that someone else's catastrophic incompetence has forced him into cooperating with another villain.

Father folds his arms tightly across his chest, his pitch-black silhouette radiating an oppressive, defensive wall of heat. The tobacco pipe is clenched viciously between his teeth, sending up thick, angry plumes of dark smoke that drift lazily toward the rusted ceiling.

"Let me make one thing abundantly clear to you," Father snaps, his voice dropping into a freezing, razor-sharp baritone that echoes off the corrugated metal walls. "This little... arrangement... is entirely temporary. I neither trust, nor do I particularly enjoy, working alongside anyone in my line of work."

He pauses for a heavy beat, taking a slow, tense puff from his pipe before shooting you a scathing sideways glance, his glowing yellow eyes narrowing into tiny, burning slits.

"...Present company included," he huffs, rolling his shoulders with a dramatic, deeply offended sigh. "Unfortunately, there currently exists a certain nuisance in this city who is considerably more irritating than you are. And my Grandfather always said to deal with the biggest pest first."

A violent, white-hot flame suddenly flickers across his shadowy knuckles, a testament to just how close he is to a complete pyrokinetic meltdown. He quickly forces the fire back down into his silhouette, adjusting his posture with a stiff, prideful snort.

"Until that common enemy has been utterly incinerated and dealt with... I suppose I can tolerate your existence," he murmurs, leaning against a rusted support beam while crossing his arms. "Barely. So, what is your brilliant plan, or are you just going to stand there and make me do all the heavy lifting?"

The heavy oak front doors of the Wigglestein estate burst open with a violent slam, the force of the impact sending a jarring rattle straight through the historic stained-glass windows.

Father strides into the grand foyer without a single second of hesitation. Despite the thick, blistering waves of heat radiating from his pitch-black silhouette in sheer irritation, his grip remains remarkably secure, holding you tightly in his arms as he navigates the grand hallway.

"Honestly..." Father grumbles under his breath, thick, aggressive plumes of dark tobacco smoke billowing from his pipe like an angry steam engine. "...what an absolutely infuriating, utterly incompetent series of events!"

He nudges the doors to his private study open with a sharp thrust of his shoulder, stepping into the dimly lit room before carefully, almost gently, lowering you onto a plush, velvet-backed chaise lounge. Only then does he finally step back, his glowing yellow eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits as he inspects your injuries with a critical, calculating gaze.

For a fraction of a second, the pitch-black shadow over his face flickers, exposing a brief, defensive flash of genuine guilt—though it vanishes behind his smug silhouette almost as quickly as it appeared.

"...This was not my intention," he declares, his deep, baritone voice dropping into a dignified, noticeably quieter register. "The pyrokinetic blast was aimed considerably farther to your left. You were simply standing in an extraordinarily unfortunate, poorly chosen location."

He turns abruptly toward a vintage mahogany cabinet, retrieving a heavily stocked, pristine first aid kit with an eerie familiarity. He marches back over, setting the supplies down on the cushion beside you before crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

"Do not misunderstand me," he huffs, his tone sharpening with a whiny, defensive edge. "I am not tending to your wounds out of some pathetic display of sentiment. But leaving an associate bleeding out on the pavement because of a minor mathematical miscalculation on my part would be... highly irresponsible. And I refuse to have my professionalism questioned by anyone! Least of all my father's memory."

Despite his defensive ranting, the ambient temperature in the room cools down completely. Father kneels down by the edge of the lounge, his sharp, shadowy fingers reaching into the kit for the bandages as his glowing eyes look up to meet yours. "Now hold still. If you bleed on my imported velvet, I will incinerate you."

Make Your Own Scenario . . .